Marshmellow Fluff

Grace was never included in my genetic makeup.  As a pre-teen, I was plagued with baby fat that was exacerbated by my love for ice cream, straight  from the carton. 

Growing up in Irvine, California, one of the safest cities in the U.S. , you’re able to make mistakes that are not life threatening and, if done within the confines of the plastic bubble, you can make it out virtually unscathed.  I’m not sure if this was the reason why as a child, the only thing that rivaled my awkwardness, was my relentless drive to try anything at least once.

When I was around eight years old,  my mom came across an article in the local newspaper about Mikel Barishnakov.  Apparently, this Russian phenom was coming to Irvine to audition children and teenagers with little to no ballet experience, for his production of Swan Lake.  I did a quick assessment and concluded that I was a child, and I had little to no experience, so by all accounts, I was a perfect fit!  My mom, I am sure did a separate assessment.  Taking in my plump frame, she must have considered my chances of making the performance, let alone off the ground, were slim to none. 

We worked as a team to pick out the perfect outfit.  With only three days to prepare for the Saturday audition we needed to be swift with our costume choice.  Shorts were quickly scratched off as a viable option, since with any sudden movement they would bunch between my inner thighs and promptly ride up my butt.  A skirt wouldn’t work either, as I didn’t have anything proper to wear underneath it. My vision of fluid leaps across the dance room floor didn’t include flashing the judges my Strawberry Shortcake undies.  And, considering when I wore a t-shirt and the wind would make it suck to my body, I would pull it at the bottom tenting it back out, so clearly, a leotard or anything spandex wasn’t making the cut.

Saturday morning had arrived.  My mom and I drove in excited silence to the performing arts center.   In my mind I had already moved to New York, rented a small but spacious loft in the city and figured out how my mom could work two jobs to support my tuition costs at Juliard.

I quickly found myself drowning in a sea of tulle and pink but wasn’t the least bit concerned because clearly,  I was buoyant enough to float to the top.  I stood there, like a moose in the headlights, the contrast to the flower-like skinny ballerinas that pirouetted around me. Before leaving house that morning, I couldn’t have been more sure in my outfit choice.  I thought my navy blue sweats with matching sweater shirt, LA gears and turquoise scrunchie socks couldn’t be rivaled by a better decision.  But now, when I saw how beautiful and elegant all the other girls were,  I was even happier in my decision to camouflage my belly rolls beneath the sweat suit I bought at the swap meet. 

We were directed by a tall, stick like serious woman with a tight bun.  She walked like she was floating on air.  I was mesmerized at how effortless moving seemed for her.  She ushered us away from our parents, and  into a large dance room with wooden floors and a huge floor to ceiling mirror.  I could clearly see that I was the “one of these things, that wasn’t like the others.”  My thick red hair riddled with a bad perm, short bangs, which were sadly also permed and huge pink bifocals sliding down my sweaty nose.   I was surrounded by gorgeous same-looking girls with indiscernible features.  After a few minutes had passed, five older versions of ballerinas entered and a matronly woman wearing a long flowy skirt seated herself at the piano in front of the room.

One of the ballerinas spoke, ” We will teach you a routine now, you will have 10 minutes to practice and then we will move to performing them as a group.  If your number is called you may stay for another routine and so on and so on.”  I couldn’t place her accent, but from the best I could tell it sounded fancy.  She walked us through a routine with movements that she marked by their ballet name.  I had trouble following  so I studied her every movement, trying to committ them to memory as the other ballerinas flitted around me. 

After her instruction the ballerinas broke off into small practice circles.  I was intrigued as there seemed to be little effort or discussion as to who was going to work together.  It was as if they had a silent understanding as to who they would allow into each clique.  The one thing they had in common however, was that none of them wanted to include me.  Convinced there was no place for me within the social hierarchy of any circle, I tucked myself into a corner of the room and tried to make it look convincing that I was too wrapped up in concentration to be phased by the outcast.

The severe looking ballerina clapped her hands and hurried us back into our line formation.  I knew this was my one chance to be noticed and I didn’t want to be lost in the sea of tutus, so I made my way to the front of the room and stood in the very center of the front row.  The only thing that stood between me and sure fame now, was one silly ballerina routine.  I willed my legs to cooperate and I prayed to God that he let this be the one defining moment in my life.  The twinkling piano music filled the air and the fancy accented ballerina shouted, “Ready….begin.”

I lept off my left foot into the air and caught my weight on my right foot.  I bent gracefully at my waist and curved my arm over my head as I tilted my neck to the side in my best attempt at looking swan-like.  I lept into the air again this time on my right foot towards the opposite side of the room only to be met by another ballerina mid flight.  We  smacked into one another and she bounced off of me and collided into the ballerina standing next to her.  Clearly, the routine had called for two flits left, one flit right–not one flit right, one flit left as I had rehearsed.  My mistake had caused a domino effect and one by one each ballerina smacked into the next and fell to the floor.  After all 15 ballerinas standing to my right fell gracefully to the wooden dance room floor, the piano playing had stopped. 

In the reflection of the huge mirror it was painfully obvious who the offender was–the red headed, navy blue hippo with beads of sweat dripping down her face.  I furrowed my eyebrows shrugged my shoulders and, before I was officially asked to do so, I walked out of the room as my dreams of New York, Juliard and a hot dancer boyfriend fell away.

I found my mom standing outside alone, surrounded by the plastic mom’s talking to each other in their loud hyena voices.  Even though she was the most familiar with my lack of grace she still managed to ask with a straight face, “Well, did you make it?”